


Various Forms

by HerGambitandSwanSong



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Coming of Age, Dissociation, F/M, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Original Character(s), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Slice of Life, Tag as I Go Along, Teen Romance, Young Love, they are nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerGambitandSwanSong/pseuds/HerGambitandSwanSong
Summary: His head started to pound, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the book harder with his hand. He needed to calm down. To stop breathing so quickly and to stop thinking so much.Focus and breathWho was he kidding?A story in which life is difficult, love is confusing, and growing up is never a linear progress.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	1. Our Forms

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd give my boy Bucky a shot and try to write a fic about him. Set in high-school, based loosely on my own general experiences and thoughts about various topics like love, self-worth, mental disorders, tragedy, society etc. 
> 
> The intention is about finding oneself when that self seems unobtainable, questioning everything, and most importantly trying; one of the most simplest, yet hardest things to do. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

_“If you wish to be loved, love.”_ – Seneca

* * *

“So, what do you say, James. Will you consider?”

Reality came surging back, snapping Bucky out of his daze. He blinked, dread seeping through his body as he became aware of his surroundings.

A lady with graying hair and thin glasses stared expectantly from across the desk, in her hands a skinny booklet of paper. Beside Bucky, a man with prominent crow’s feet and clean kept black hair waited for a response patiently. On the desk a laptop sat open facing the lady. It buzzed faintly like a car radio lost between the stations, prominent in the silence. To distract himself from the buzz, Bucky caught sight of a vaguely familiar insignia. It was an arrow through a geometric style of the earth, inscribed underneath with blocky letters the phrase “ _Docendo discimus_ ”.

Slowly everything came back to him. He was at school.

Bucky glanced warily at the man the man the man- _who_? Mr. Bates.

“Sorry,” He croaked, looking back at the lady- the academic advisor, Miss Aster. “Could you repeat that?” 

If she showed any worry, Bucky didn’t notice. “We realize that the last year has been extremely tough on you, and we think its best that you receive some help to make things easier to handle. That way you aren’t struggling unnecessarily.” Miss Aster explained, filling in none of the gaps Bucky was hoping she’d fill.

He wasn’t going to ask her to repeat everything she’d said because of a lapse in his memory. It was stupid. Besides, he didn’t even know the subject of the talk, let alone how long the conversation had been going on.

Mr. Bates nodded in agreement, “It’ll help your grades and get you back on the right track.”

On the right track? He was already a year behind all his peers, stuck in high school for a fifth year while everyone he had grown up with was gallivanting off to university. He was far from the proverbial track, hell he wasn’t even on a track- he was knee deep in a river off the coast of Mexico somewhere. 

“Okay.” He rasped. Still confused, Bucky accepted the package, staring owlishly at the paper.

Bolded on the front of the package was _Seneca High-School’s Individualized Education Plan_ , staring in ugly Calibri font at him.

“An IEP?” He whispered, dread filling his stomach.

“Show the package to your parents and talk about it with them. If they have any questions, my contact number is at the back.” Miss Aster continued. “You’re a smart student, James. But you struggled last semester and we don’t want you to go through that again.”

Bucky nodded silently. That seemed like the understatement of the year. 

“Can I go now?” He asked, and Miss Aster nodded with a small smile.

Mr. Bates followed, walking Bucky to the school’s front entrance. The halls were empty, already void of any student life. End of the week school days sure did know how to silence a usually bustling building quickly. He suspected that the only people left on the school grounds were the custodians, himself and Mr. Bates as well as a couple sports teams.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Mr. Bates asked, fixing the strap of his shoulder bag.

Bucky shook his head, “Just work.”

As if nowadays, work could be classified as just sweeping an already dusty bookstore because no one wanted him on a ladder stocking.

“Well, make sure you live a little. You’re far too young for those nine to fives.”

Bucky said his goodbyes and left, getting into his sister’s idling car.

Stiffly, he slung off his bag, but before even a word could be uttered, Becca was already leaning across him, taking his seat belt from its spot, and buckling him in.

Instantly, heat rose in his face and he looked away, trying to hide the embarrassment evident. It was not that his sister was doing it on purposeful to make him feel bad, it was just that ever since the accident she seemed to over-coddle him. Her sisterly instincts intensified to almost ungodly levels of babying. A couple days after the accident, Becca had dropped her semester, got on a plane homebound, and moved back in with their family to essential babysit Bucky.

A part of Bucky knew that she was doing it out of the kindness of her heart, but another felt like she was just doing it because that was what people expected of her. Nobody wanted to be the absent older sister of a recently amputated victim. What sort of inconsiderate sibling would do that? Not Becca, the perfect, unproblematic child of the Barnes.

Their relationship hadn’t been the smoothest, especially in the years prior to her heading to university. It was mainly in part because Bucky just did not know how to talk to people. He had never been good at it, and the few friends he did have never truly resonated as… well, friends. He was sort of just a filler of time for them. They knew it, he knew it, and while there was not much emotional satisfaction out of it, it was sufficient to keep him going. Yet, now everyone was gone, and he was the one left behind.

“What took so long, Bucko?” Becca asked, shifting the car into gear. Bucky cringed at the sudden nickname, sounding so foreign coming from her. 

“My teacher wanted to talk to me,” He muttered, looking out the window at the passing trees.

“Why?”

Bucky hesitated. If he told Becca about the IEP, she’d tell his parents and he’d have no choice but to do it. “… He wanted to see how I was doing.”

“Oh well that was nice of him. I remember when I was in high-school, my teacher Mrs. Graft- is she still there by the way? anyways she…” Slowly Becca started to ramble off, her voice drowning in the sea of trees they passed by that overtook his attention.

They lived in the small town of Tunguska. It sounded Russian, but that was deceiving and if anyone mentioned that to any red-white- and blue loving patriot they’d probably call the person a commie and stalk off. Tunguska was about as American as an American could get. It stood in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres and acres of never-ending forest that probably hid an anthropophagus or two.

That was just a fancy word for cannibal. He had heard it in his Mr. Bates class on the first day of the new school year and thought it sounded pretty interesting.

Regardless, what Bucky was trying to get at was that Tunguska was a small community, it lived and breathed a concoction of the American way and survival of the fittest.

He really hoped one day that he could leave Tunguska and never return. However, with how things were going for Bucky, his chances of success seemed far from it. 

The next day Bucky finds himself mindlessly dusting the bookshelves packed around the store.

It was the fourth time that day he was dusting the shelves and his arm was starting to ache. The issue was, aside from cleaning the store or using the cash register when people bought books, there really was nothing else to do. The owners of the store, an older couple named Phillip and May had completely vetoed remotely any heavy lifting for Bucky, leaving him with only the cleaning and customer service portion of the job. It didn’t take an expert to see that Bucky didn’t exactly have a knack for talking to people.

This change in roles happened just after Bucky finished his initial physical therapy program. After settling into a new distorted routine of life, Phillip and May had offered the position back to him, wondering if he still wanted to work. Desperate for some normalcy and control, Bucky had agreed. It was only after a couple of firsthand experiences in dropping stacks of books or falling off the ladder that the couple decided it was best to restrict what he did. Like any genuine soul, Bucky knew that there was no ill-intent with the restrictions. They were only doing what they thought was best for his wellbeing, and he did appreciate that. But sometimes he hoped that the first thing people did when around him wasn’t related to his disability. That maybe, if possible, they would see him first instead of his issues. 

Nevertheless, that was Bucky just getting sidetracked in his thought.

Realistically, what he was getting at is that this is where Peggy comes in.

Peggy was a brilliant bold, tea-loving British brunette. Posh enough to retain her ‘Britishness’, but daring enough to be mistaken as American, Peggy was a classic case of a childhood and personality gone right. She was smart, athletic, charismatic, and friendly, and conveniently found herself working along side Bucky at the bookstore and sitting in front of him in class. She did all the heavy lifting in the store and even acknowledge him once or twice.

The issue was, was that Bucky could never find the courage to talk to her. She was everything he wasn’t, and the mere thought of initiating a conversation unrelated to work with her left him lightheaded.

So, when the little bell dangling atop of the door rings and Bucky looks up from dusting a low shelf his very ability to communicate flies out the window.

“Hey James,” Peggy says, “Is Phillip or May around? I was hoping to get last week’s pay cheque from them.”

That made sense. Both Friday and today Peggy had requested off this week, so she hadn’t picked up her paystub yet. It wasn’t because she wanted to talk to him specifically.

Bucky nodded mutely, pointing with the duster to the back of the bookstore where Phillip’s office resided. He had been ordering a new shipment of books and had left Bucky to watch storefront for a few minutes. 

Peggy, understanding what Bucky meant, smiled, “Lovely, thanks.”

Bucky stands up from his crouching position and watches briefly as Peggy goes to the back. It’s only when Peggy disappears into the office that Bucky notices the rest of the people that came into the store with her. There’s three of them to be exact: two boys both athletically built and one girl, her red hair tinted with streaks of orange.

They paid no attention to Bucky thankfully, choosing rather to chat with themselves as they waited for Peggy’s return. He uses his chance to slip behind the store counter, hand shaking nervously. These were people in his grade, friends of Peggy who were probably as lively and chatty as her. Luck did not favor the misfortune and Bucky had an entire broken windshield of bad luck on his hands. So, knowing his luck- or lack thereof, they would try to strike up a conversation with him. 

“Man,” One of the boys says in a drawl, “I would love to work here, all you do is sit and read. Peggy’s set.”

The red head pulls a skeptical, if not amused face, “Sam, when was the last time you read a book willingly?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Is it?” She smirks.

Grabbing a book and hunching over to avoid being seen anymore than he wanted too, Bucky flipped open the page he had left off on of _Slaughterhouse 5_.

He tried to concentrate on reading, but since the accident he had some difficulty with attention. The chatter from his classmates, the rough texture of the paper under his skin, the hundreds of words jam packed tightly against each other on the pages, and the musty scent of old and new paper alike all seemed to intensify in their own ways. He couldn’t concentrate on just one thing.

His head started to pound, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the book harder with his hand. He needed to calm down. To stop breathing so quickly and to stop thinking so much.

_Focus and breathe_

Who was he kidding?

“That’s a great book.” A voice said from in front of Bucky, startling him. He jumped in surprise, knocking over an open mug of tea his mom had packed for him. The contents of the tea spilled unceremoniously over the book, and Bucky instantly let go scrambling for the dust cloth beside him.

“Shit!” The voice said in alarm, but Bucky was too busy frantically patting the pages to pay much attention. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scared you!”

“It’s alright, I mean- _ah_ I, I-“ He stumbles over his words, unable to form any semblance of a sentence.

“That’s totally my fault, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”

“No, it’s okay I…” Sound dies in his throat as he stares with wide eyes at the source of the voice.

He’s blonde and he’s tall and he’s staring at Bucky with an expression similar to his own. The contact is held for not even a second before Bucky’s hand stops wiping at the pages and his eyes shoot downward to avoid the blonde’s gaze. They fall on the ruin book, drenched in chamomile tea.

So much for soothing.

“So it goes?” The blonde pipes in weakly. 

The bookstore is a deathly quiet with even the other boy and girl falling silent to stare at the scene that was unfolding.

“James?” Phillip’s voice says from across the store. He’s standing with Peggy at the entrance of the office, an obvious look of concern on his face. He knew Bucky better then almost anyone. What made the boy tick and what made that ticking go wild or shut down. “You okay?”

Bucky shakes his head. No, he’s not okay, and he hasn’t been for awhile. He’s tired and always nervous and never who he wants to be. Feeling not only like a complete loser, but a baby as well, he shoots up from his seat, staggering only for a moment before he rushes to the tiny staff washroom at the back of the store.

Shutting and locking it, Bucky sits on the toilet seat, hunching over and shutting his eyes. He presses a hand to his ear, hoping to drown the world out.

Yet he can’t even do that right. He’s got two ears and only one hand. The world will always be there for Bucky. He won’t get the silence that he wants.

He knows what’s on the other side of the door. Knows that those kids will talk about him. And they’ll see him at school and whisper- whisper about how weird or overreactive or crazy he is. He knows that. It doesn’t make anything less easy to handle though.

Time goes by and heartbeat’s settle. Thoughts stop crashing into each other. His breathing gets steadier.

Bucky doesn’t know when, but he hears Phillip speak.

“Hey buddy,” The older man’s kind voice says from on the other side. “You need a ride home?”

Bucky nods even though Philip can’t see him. “Yes, please.”


	2. Ludus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy !

_“It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know that it has begun.”_ -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

Bucky rode his bike to school on Monday.

After a horrible start to the weekend, he had kept quiet and kept his head down. He avoided his sister and parents as much as possible in fear of their automatic smothering reaction to anything that mildly perturbed Bucky. He knew his family watched him like a wild animal, probably in fear that he was a ticking bomb or bull in a china shop, ready to destroy anything in the vicinity.

Regardless, his weekend consisted of biking through backroads, scratchily drawing in his backyard, and working on the model plane he had gotten last Christmas. They weren’t the coolest hobbies, the latter especially, but they brought a sense of tranquility and simplicity to Bucky that he really appreciated in the moment.

The bike ride to school was maybe 15 minutes, 25 tops if he took his time. By the time he had arrived, the single school bus that roamed the edges of tiny Tunguska picking up students was pulling in. Waves of students rushed out, chatting loudly with one another as they entered through the entrance. 

Hurriedly, Bucky locked his bike to the bike-rack, making his way into the school. He grabbed his stuff from his locker and headed towards his first class.

Despite the semester only having started a week prior, he had to admit that his school schedule was great apart from gym. Lunch was at a perfect time in the day, evening out his workload. Of the buddle of classes he was in throughout the week, two were taught by Mr. Bates. Philosophy and history quickly became his favorite classes primarily because of him.

He was fair in his grading and entertaining in his teachings. This made Bucky genuinely try in his classes because he wanted to reciprocate the effort his teacher had put.

However, while hard work was a good trait to have, it meant squat to the education system. They wanted 90s all around, caring little for the effort failing students put in.

Bucky remembers being an achieving student before the accident, but somewhere between here and there his brain decided that attention and memory were obsolete. Words gave him headaches despite his undying love for reading, and information became harder to retain. It took him longer than most students nowadays to memorize what they were taught, and it showed prominently in his grades from last year.

Truth be told it was incredibly disheartening for Bucky in those first couple months back to school after physiotherapy. He had gone from excelling to failing quite quickly with no answer to when it would fix itself.

He wasn’t stupid, not even remotely close. He still understood everything he was taught; information just took longer to cement itself into his brain. Regardless of how many times he told his family or school, it never seemed to stick with them. Often times, making him feel like they were the ones with the head trauma.

Taking a seat at the back of class, Bucky opened up his notebook as more students filed in, Mr. Bates herding them to their seats.

“Alright, settle down,” He said over the students’ voices. “The sooner we start the earlier I’ll let go. Besides, the chapter today is something everyone can relate to- isn’t that right Marcus and Emma? You hormonal lovebirds.”

The couple looked at each other sheepishly, cheeks growing pink at the callout.

Mr. Bates stepped away from his desk, clasping his hands. “What do you guys love? Come on, shoot me some answers.” He encouraged.

A blond girl at the front of the class rose her hand, “Soccer?”

“Cool,” He drew a messy picture of soccer ball on the blackboard. “Anyone else?”

“My mom.” Another student pitched in.

Mr. Bates nodded, drawing a stick figure lady, “Nice, we got a mama’s boy here, what else?”

“My phone!”

“My self!”

“Confident, I like it.” He grinned. The board filled more and more with terrible drawings of various things. “All right, one more.”

Bucky’s heart seized for a split second before starting to beat quickly. His grip on the pencil shook, but not in fear or anger like he so often experienced since the accident.

Realization struck. He wanted to talk, wanted to contribute and say what he loved; to be heard. 

What did he love though? Lots of things he guessed. Although there was something really important that he loved, and his heart knew it. It was on the tip of his tongue. Where was it?

What did he love? What did he-

“-Pineapple on pizza!” A boy to Bucky’s left shouted suddenly. The class all snickered, and Mr. Bates smiled drawing a giant pineapple with a frowny face.

“Debatable, but alright.” 

A breath left Bucky and he shrunk in his seat defeatedly.

Mr. Bates set the chalk down to face the class, “So, if all of these things are loved, how the hell do we define love then? Is the love of a cell phone the same as the love of a parent? Are there degrees? Is one more important then the other? Well, the Greeks wanted to figure that out, so they categorized seven forms of love with the inclusion of one more in later years. These types were: Ludus, Mania, Eros, Storge Philia, Philautia, Pragma, and Agape.”

Bucky wrote them down before his pencil travelled to the corner of the paper, drawing a small oval with triangles shooting out from the top. He extended his doodle with a curve upward below the fruit, adding a long bowl and a banana beside it.

What fruits went well with pineapples? Pineapple mango smoothies were delicious so they must go with it then. He remembered vaguely having them at the hospital to get some vitamins into his system. They were also easy to have since drinking smoothies only really required one hand and not two unlike sandwiches- 

_Focus_

Shaking his head, Bucky snapped himself out of his trailing tangent. Squinting, he forced his attention on Mr. Bates, opting to focus on writing every word he said as its own.

“Experience often dictates what we love…” Mr. Bates went on explaining.

40 minutes later, Mr. Bates had stuck to his promise of letting them out early.

As per usual Bucky took his time leaving the class, exiting into the hall as soon as his classmates all had. However, a jolt of surprise shook Bucky to the core as he caught sight of the blond boy from Saturday out of the corner of his eye.

He was leaning against one of the lockers parallel to the classroom, boringly fiddling with a book, unaware of the other boy’s presence.

Heat bloomed in Bucky’s face and he dropped his head, hurriedly walking away. The last thing he wanted to do was be around someone that only reminded him of how embarrassing his outburst was at the bookstore.

If he just kept walking, stayed quiet, and avoided any eye contact he’d be fine. The blond boy wouldn’t notice him and there would be no comments or insults thrown his way. He’d go through school unnoticed with little to no reminders.

“Hey!” The blond said suddenly, the sound of feet pounding against tile growing louder. “Wait up!”

The hairs on his neck rose, a cold shudder traveling down his back. Bucky spared a glance over his shoulder despite every bit of his body arguing otherwise, and instantaneously tripped on his feet at the sight.

The blond guy was jogging towards him.

He caught up quite quickly, matching in pace with Bucky.

“Hey! Bobbi told me you’re in her philosophy class, and I wanted to say sorry about Saturday. I really didn’t mean to set you off or anything. I’m Steve by the way. We’re in gym together.” The blond, Steve rambled, following Bucky to his dismay.

“It’s fine,” Bucky croaked. Steve stuck his hand out in front of Bucky, stopping him abruptly.

“Well, I don’t think it is. So, I wanted to give you this.” He extended the book out and Bucky looked at it perplexed. Did he want Bucky to take the book? Did Steve not see that his one and only arm was holding two textbooks and a notebook? Better yet, did he not see the complete lack of shape in Bucky’s other sleeve. There was a reason why he never wore short sleeves or tank tops to school in the fall and spring, and he thought it was pretty obvious.

He had been mistaken apparently.

Bucky stared at the book, “Do you… want me to take the book?”

“Yeah, I mean-“Steve’s eyes wandered down to Bucky’s empty sleeve, instantly widening in horror filled realization. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry I wasn’t thinking and-“

“-It’s okay,” 

Steve let out a shaky breath, “You say that a lot.” He frowned.

Bucky just continued to stare silently.

“Uh, here.” Steve manoeuvred the book awkwardly onto Bucky’s short stack, taking a step back after. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “You can keep it. I just have to warn you that some of the pages have doodles in them. I tend to sketch on the parts I like.”

He liked to draw?

“Well, uh I gotta go.” Steve backed away and Bucky found himself letting out the breath he was holding. “Bye.”

He watched dumbfounded as Steve turned the corner of the hallway, disappearing from sight.

It was only a couple seconds later when Bucky was sure that Steve was gone, that he glanced at the book he’d received.

Something tingled in Bucky. A warm feeling he had never felt before.

_Slaughterhouse 5_

Unbeknownst to him, a tiny smile appeared on Bucky’s face.

* * *

At dinner Bucky stares at his lasagna with intense concentration.

Every forkful of food he’s scooped up has fallen off the utensil before it can get even remotely close to his mouth like some slipper fish flopping frantically off a dock for survival.

It could be the result of too much sauce, or the fact that he’s eating with a plastic fork.

Mildly annoyed, he only looks up from his plate when he notices the lack of noise coming from his family. He just barely catches the sight of three pairs of owlish eyes staring at him warily before those pairs snap to their own respected plates caught and guilty.

Bucky grits his teeth. His family seemed to only have three moods with him now: Overly caring, overly pissed, or just plain out spooked by whatever he did, as if he were a cornered animal ready to go rabid at any moment.

“So,” His Dad spoke, slicing through the silence. “How’s school going, James? You acing your tests?”

“School started a week ago, we haven’t had any tests yet.” 

His Dad laughs, if not a little nervously, “And that right there shows how outta touch I am with school.” 

“What about clubs? Have you joined any?” His Mom joined in, taking a sip of water after.

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, “Don’t have the time. The bookstore takes up a lot of my time after school.”

“ _Sure_ ,” Becca drawls unbelievingly, and Bucky shoots a glare. “If you have enough time to talk to your teacher after school Buckaroo, you got the time for a club.”

“Teacher? When?” His Mom asked, “What did they want?”

Bucky groans internally, shooting a mental reminder for himself to get back at his sister somehow for her snootiness. The last thing he wanted was for his parents or sister interrogating him on why Mr. Bates had talk to him in the first place. If they did, the IEP package from his academic advisor could be mentioned unknowingly. “Mr. Bates, last Friday. He was just wondering how things were going.”

His mom cooed, pressing her hand to her heart, “What a nice man. Make sure you thank him next time you see him.”

“I had a gym teacher like Mr. Bates once,” His Dad mused thoughtfully. “He was great. Taught me lots of sports, played catch with me, was your grandpa. God, having your dad as your teacher was the best. I’ll tell you, all the other students loved him. Wilfred, remember that time when he made me run the track with no shoes on because he caught me smoking in the bathroom?”

Bucky’s mom chuckled, “I remember, you ran like a chicken with its head cut off.”

“The track was made of gravel!” His dad said through a deep laugh. 

Bucky watched his parents laugh back and forth, throwing in comments that made no sense. They were childhood sweethearts, joined to the hip from the very beginning whether that be on the playground or in the classroom. For almost 40 years they did everything together: liked the same things, knew the same people, went to the same places. To this day they still laughed and joked around like teenagers, uncaring of any onlookers- even their kids.

So, it made no sense whatsoever why they were getting divorced then.

The divorce was supposed to happen a month of two into last year, but because of Bucky’s accident, they decided to postpone the separation for a year till he recovered. Was Bucky relieved that the date was postponed? Definitely. But was he glad that it just meant he was only a hinderance to his parents in the process? Most definitely not. 

The thought of the divorce and accident only had his stomach churring. He tended to avoid relating the two events because whenever he did, he just thought of immense pain throughout his body and an arm bent in all sorts of inhumane directions.

He looked down at the lasagna. It didn’t seem so appealing now.

With bile rising in his throat, he stood up, pushing his chair away, “Ma, do you mind if I leave the table? I’m not feeling to good.”

His mom stands with him, moving over to him quickly, “Oh honey of course.” She said tactfully. “If it’s another one of your migraines, just lemme know and I’ll bring up a heating pad.” 

She tries to press her hand against his forehead, but Bucky moves away. Instantly her brows furrow and she wrestled forward placing a hand against his head regardless.

His mother was a small but ferocious lady, one he never dared to test further with minor issues. She barely made it to his shoulders but there was no doubt in his mind that if someone ever truly crossed her, she would wipe the floor with them.

“You’re warm,” She noted disapprovingly.

“Ma,” He tried in almost a whine. “I can handle my own problems.”

She looked disgruntled, but after a moment she sighed. “Fine. Go. But you better not stay up late today if you’re feeling sick.”

He bobbed his head, leaving the room. He moved passed the couch-turned-makeshift-bed-spread that his dad slept on at night in the living room, grabbing his backpack. Bucky frowned at the couch layered with covers and a duvet. He didn’t like it at all, but he wasn’t going to think about it now. 

In his room, Bucky sat on his bed rummaging through his bag. He pulled out Steve’s copy of _Slaughterhouse 5_ and examined in. It was an old edition of the book, but he can tell throughout the years that it was well taken care of.

Turning on his lamp, Bucky leans against his bed’s backboard, bringing his knees up and presses the open book with his elbow. 

There was no way he’d remember what page he was last on, so he opted to start anew.

Halfway through chapter one he falls on the first doodle.

It’s of a cartoon baby dressed as a crusader.

Soon after follows a sketch of a sad lady looking back at Bucky. She is fashioned in a pillar of salt.

Chapter two has a drawing of a scrawny man in an army uniform. He looks sickly but he has a determined look on his face. One that screams _I can do this all day_.

Like a child eagerly looking at the last pages of a comic prematurely, Bucky finds himself flipping through the pages, looking for any other doodles Steve may have drawn. The sun fully sets, and the moon rises silently without him noticing.

As his fingers brush the fifth chapter, they stop abruptly, hovering an inch above the page corner. 

Similar to a book, he had to look at the doodles as he read along. Only then would he get the most meaning out of it. Pictures were pictures until someone put a story to it.

Setting the book down on his nightstand, Bucky turned off his lamp and slipped under his covers.

For just a moment Bucky could picture Steve sitting on a couch or at a park reading the book and doodling the moments he liked the best. Those moments probably resonated with him. They meant something to him whether through sentiment or just plain satirical humor. Nevertheless, Bucky had to appreciate that.

And like before at school, that warm feeling arose in his chest.

He covered his face with the duvet and looked into nothing.

That feeling sure was something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurt Vonnegut is my favorite author of all time. I not only have a fish named Vonnegut but also a tattoo of a quote from him. 
> 
> I "stan" Mr Vonnegut.


	3. Mania

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof so many interruptions the past couple of days

_“Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.” -_ Confucius

* * *

For the most part, Bucky’s day was going pretty well.

He was focusing a lot more in school only wandering off near the end of the day, was slowly but steadily picking off chapters in Slaughterhouse Five and hadn’t run into Steve in a couple of days.

Alright, so he had to admit that he was conflicted with the latter. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Steve; the blond seemed easy-going and genuine - if not a little clumsy. It was just that he wasn’t too fond of the embarrassing reminder that often popped up when thinking about him. 

When he thought of Steve, he thought of a nice smile, straw-blond hair, a book, and his freak-out at the bookstore.

It had engrained itself within Bucky’s mind, acting as a constant reminder as to why he couldn’t make friends: he was too weird, and he was a coward that ran away from everything.

He hated how little control he had over his body and emotion’s reactions sometimes. Either it was overly panicked and erratic or completely detached and confused, there was no in-between. He just wanted to think rationally- honestly, he wanted a lot of things: control, normalcy, relief, confidence, and friends. It was just those things meant taking risks, and that terrified him to the bone.

Risks could be cruel, and judgmental, and regretful, and painful. 

Just because he wanted something, didn’t mean he had the guts to get it. Sometimes nothing was all he needed.

Regardless of Bucky’s pitiful confidence and questionable mindset, his ‘nothing’ day was going decent.

That was up until he left school and saw his bike.

It was missing a rather important piece of equipment: the back tire.

Who the hell would steal a single tire?

Bucky knelt down beside the bike, looking briefly around.

Because he liked to leave school after everyone had left, there was no one in sight. The bus was gone and there was only a handful of parked, empty cars left.

A low sigh escaped his lips, and he shrugged his backpack off his shoulders, taking a seat on the ground.

Bucky sat on the ground for five minutes, contemplating what he should do. He could call his sister to see if she wasn’t working and pick him up, but even then, her tiny car could barely fit the two of them let alone a bike. He’d have to backtrack the next day with a new wheel and pray to God that no one stole the other tire. He didn’t even wanna think about how that discussion would go out with his parents.

So that left only one option, he’d walk it home.

“Y’know you need two wheels to ride, right?” A voice said from behind pulling Bucky abruptly out from his stupor. A mixture of dread, and something else filled his stomach, and he turned in surprise, his head just barely missing the metal rod of the bike rack.

Above him, a few feet away stood Steve, cladded from head to toe in the school’s red and white jersey colors. He held a lacrosse stick in one hand, and a water bottle in the other, looking with an amused smile at Bucky.

Of course, of all people it had to be Steve.

Bucky turned away, eyes falling to the dirt floor between his feet.

“I only have one,” He mumbled quickly, unable to meet the other’s eyes. Steve nodded, getting closer.

He set down his lacrosse stick and knelt. “I can see that,” He hummed lightly. “Can I ask why?”

Bucky shrugged, “Someone took it.”

The innocent smile melted from Steve’s face. “Oh,” He croaked thickly.

With a newfound desire to get away from the newly developing embarrassment. Bucky pushed himself up and turned the dial on his padlock, unlocking it from the bike rack. He shoved the padlock into his bag’s side pocket and shrugged the rest over his shoulder. Bucky could still feel the other boy’s gaze lurking, a cold chill raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

This was what he had meant before. Risks carried judgement and from here on out, Steve would look at Bucky and think not only about the bookstore incident, but the pathetic circumstance of his bike. He’d think about how much of a loser Bucky was for getting his tire stolen and freaking out like a spaz.

Bucky didn’t want Steve to judge him like that. He wanted him to think something else.

So, leaving quietly was the safest options.

Ignoring the dirt that scraped along the bike’s cassette as he pushed it onto the pavement, Bucky started to walk away.

“Wait, wait, hang on.” Steve said quickly snapping from his stare. Stepping in front of Bucky and his bike, Steve stopped him abruptly with outstretched hands. “I can drive you home if you just wait ten more minutes for practice to end. We can throw your bike in the back of my truck.”

He could lie and say that he had work soon and couldn’t wait, but then there was a possibility Peggy would out him. Bucky could deal with being thought of as a spaz or pathetic, but as discourteous?

No way, his mom didn’t raise him like that. He’d rather die sad then die as an inconsiderate prick.

“I can get by on my own.” He said quietly, pushing the bike around Steve’s hands. 

Steve stepped in his way again, a stubborn expression written clearly on his face, “But you don’t have to.” He grabbed one of the handlebars and used his other hand to point towards the parking lot. “My truck is parked right beside the bleachers. We can throw your bike in the back, there’s plenty of room.”

Bucky looked towards the parking lot unsure, “I don’t…”

“Come on,” The blond insisted keenly. “Practice is over, we’re just having a short meeting now. It shouldn’t even take five minutes.”

The hesitation from Bucky seemed to solidify Steve’s offer, and the blond grinned with success. He grabbed his stick from the ground and shoved his bottle between his armpit, taking the other side of the handlebars. 

Steve ushered Bucky to his car without a single wavering step, letting go only as they got to the blue truck. He popped the truck door down and before Bucky could croak out a word, was lifting the bike into the back, not even the tiniest strain on his face.

Steve was a strong dude, and it showed in his figure. The guy was lean and muscled, his exposed limbs evenly toned from the constant workouts and exercises that consisted in his active lifestyle. Heat rose from Bucky’s face and he looked down trying to pry his attention away.

Bucky’s physique was no where close to the blond’s immaculate one. He had lost most, if not all of the baby fat and muscle during the hospital stay and subsequent physio to an almost detrimental point. His mom constantly fussed about how bony or frail he looked, leading to a less then ideal confrontation when she furiously handed him a scale and told him to weigh himself. Bucky had only just managed to win that argument and avoid a weigh in by bringing up the fact that a missing arm meant his weight would obviously be lower than what it was before.

He didn’t mention that an arm really only accounted for at least a couple pounds of his body weight. 

Either way, Steve had an enticingly pleasant body, and that thought alone had him being led to the bleachers completely unaware.

His attention only snapped back to reality as Steve led him to the bleachers where a dozen or so other students in lacrosse gear sat chatting.

Heads looked up as the pair approached, and Bucky recognized Peggy and two others from the bookstore incident. The groups’ eyes went from the blond's to the brunette's in slight confusion, instantly creating an explosion of panic in Bucky. His breathing grew more erratic and he turned to leave.

A hand grasped his wrist firmly, pulling him back before he could. Steve looked with a raised brow at him, but dismissed it quickly, opting to focus on the others.

“You guys mind if James sits in?”

“Why?” A blond said in confusion. Instantly he received a smack in the shoulder from the red head that had been in the bookstore. He yelped, reeling back in more surprise than pain. “What the hell was that for?”

“Don’t ask dumb questions, Clint,” The girl scolded. 

“That’s Clint and Natasha,” Steve smiled, gesturing to the pair. He pointed towards the rest. “You already know Peggy.”

“Hey James.” Peggy said with a warm wave, and Bucky gave a flustered nod in return. 

Steve continued, motioning towards each person, “Then there’s Sam, Bobbi, Bruce, Thor, Pepper, and Rhodey.”

The first guy from the bookstore, Sam waved. “Hey man, you here to join the team?”

As if that had was even a valid question to ask. No way in hell was Bucky going to play lacrosse.

“Oh, and this is Tony, he isn’t on the team, but he likes making our equipment.” Steve said, gesturing finally to the black-haired boy with large bright eyes. He was leaning against the ginger- Pepper, fiddling with the string of a lacrosse stick.

“Excuse me, but last time I checked, without equipment you can’t play. Therefore, I am a valuable asset of the team- if not the MVP.”

“SportsChek, Tony. SportsChek exists.” Pepper said with a sigh.

Tony waved dismissively, “Semantics.”

Before anyone can say a word, Steve guides Bucky to take a seat on the bleacher and one of their teachers- a strict and rather scary man, Mr. Fury approaches.

He acknowledges Bucky with a raised brow, critical eye boring into him, but he says nothing. Instead he turns to the rest of the team.

“Good practice but don’t get cocky. You all still need a lot of work. I’m going to make this quick cause I sure as hell don’t wanna be here longer than the rest of you do.”

Bucky’s attention wanders as Coach Fury rattles off information, his voice becoming like faded echoes in a canyon. A tingly, weightless sensation creeps through Bucky’s body and the world around him slips into the background, pulling away getting farther and farther from his grasp.

There is a buzz, and Coach Fury’s muffled talking becomes a high feminine voice singing in unison with an army of instruments clashing in harmony.

A frown escapes Bucky and he blinks sluggishly, shifting ever so slightly. His hand brushes against his seat, and his breath hitches in his throat harshly.

The bench isn’t metal and hard like it was a split second ago. It’s plush and feels nice to touch like how a blanket is nice to feel.

He blinks again, turning to look at his surroundings.

It’s completely different.

There’s no coach, no other students he had met- _what were their names again?_ No field or bleacher or lacrosse sticks or grass under his feet.

Trees are passing him by through a window and to his left is Steve calmly behind the steering wheel humming along to the lady singing. Bucky relaxes for a brief moment, it’s just Steve.

_Steve?_

Any remaining pieces of rational left in Bucky’s mind takes a swan dive out the window as adrenaline and panic seize him.

Startled, Bucky jolts from the seat, slamming against the passenger side door, hand clawing to grab purchase of the door handle. He grabs it in white-knuckled death grip and frantically tries to yank it open. He tries and tries but it doesn’t budge _he can’t get out he can’t get out he’s going to dying_.

“What the- James stop!” Steve says loudly, panic laced in his voice.

The car swerves to the side of the road, stopping with a jolt and Bucky finally has the brilliant idea to push the handle instead of pull. The door pops open and he falls out, his bag catching on the seatbelt still buckled in.

He struggles, fighting the belt and bag wildly before the straps slip off his shoulders. With a thud, his ass hits the floor and he starts to scrambles on the gravel, feet tripping unceremoniously over themselves.

The other side of the car opens and closes, and Steve circles the truck over to Bucky, an alarmed expression on his face.

Bucky crawls into the sideroad's ditch, pressing his back against the raised ground. To his panic and displeasure Steve follows.

“James what’s going on, are you alri -“

“-Wh-where am I?” Bucky interrupted breathless, wide eyed.

Steve looked spooked- if not a little scared, “What do you mean?”

Tears pool in the corners of Bucky’s eyes, and his chest screams for air, “Where the fuck am I!” Running his shaking hand through his hair, he tugs roughly at his brown locks, loose strands coming undone between his fingers. 

“We’re on Westchester Street a couple minutes from your house.” Steve says carefully. He kneels beside Bucky, seemingly making his presence smaller. “I was driving you home. Your bike had no wheel, so I offered, don’t you remember?”

“I d- I don’t-“ He breathes deeply, trying to recall the past twenty minutes. Nothing comes to mind, and he only squeezes his eyes shut panting. “I _wanna_ go home.”

Steve nods in understanding. “Okay,” He says quietly. “I’ll take you home, but I need you to breathe first. Can you do that?”

It takes a moment to response, but Bucky nods weakly. With Steve’s guidance he follows the blond’s breathing, eyes fixated on the rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, he calms, and the world settles around him.

“Keep breathing, I’m going to bring you to the truck.”

Helping Bucky up, Steve wordlessly leads him back to the truck. They got in and began to drive, sitting in a newfound wave of painful silence. It was as if nothing had happened, yet something did and Bucky wasn’t proud of it.

Shame prodded relentlessly at his heart. He could have caused an accident or injured Steve. He’d have thrown himself into yet another accident like the idiot he was, but this time have collateral damage in the shape of a perfectly good person. It wouldn’t just be his life he ruined then. It would be another living person’s.

Feeling the need to apologize, Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“M’sorry,” He said quietly.

Steve shook his head, his voice strained, “Don’t say that. That’s not fair to you.”

He couldn’t help but look up in surprise.

“What?” Bucky croaked. Strong blue eyes met his own, staring through Bucky like glass. It was only for a second, but it felt as though Steve had looked right into his soul and absorbed every detail of what made Bucky Bucky; the good the bad, the ugly- everything.

“You shouldn’t be sorry for something that’s out of your control.”

Bucky frowned, not understanding Steve’s justification of innocence. “But it is.”

“Well then, lemme ask you. Did you want to forget where you were?”

“No.”

“And did you want to scare me?”

Bucky looked down, “No.”

“Yet it happened anyways.” Steve concluded, “It’s not fair to you then to apologize. It was out of your control.”

If it was supposedly not his fault, then whose was it? There was always someone to blame for a person’s actions, whether it be the person themselves or another.

Frustrated in both his lack of ability to agree or understand, Bucky turned away looking out at the passing trees, “Then who’s fault is it?”

A soft hum came from Steve, as though he wasn’t thinking too intensely at the question.

“I don’t know,” He admitted, but he didn’t sound disappointed, he just sounded insouciant. Like despite confessing his unknowingness, he was indifferent to the answer whether he knew or not. “God? the Universe? Capitalism? The Media? It really isn’t anyone’s fault but Life’s. And you wanna know why that is so great?”

“Why?” Bucky muttered, still not looking back.

“Because it’s Life’s problem now. It gets to deal with that guilt, not you.” If Bucky had turned around, he would have saw Steve looking back, a teasing smile on his lips. “So it goes, I guess.”

Despite the frustration and confusion that ran amuck in Bucky’s head, a tiny smile pushed its way through to the surface, hidden from Steve’s view.

* * *

Bucky studied Steve carefully as he opened the door to his house. Thank God no one was home, he was 100% positive that talking to another person would only push him over the edge once again.

Still, the question prodding at the back of his head hadn’t been answered yet. It had been one that kept resurfacing every time Steve talked to him. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Steve shrugged nonchalantly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’m not. I just see stuff as they are. If someone is being picked on, I’m going to help them, and if someone looks sad, I’m going to try to cheer them up.”

His eyes caught sight of the bike, leaning with only one wheel up against the garage door. A phantom sensation crept up from the stump of his arm and he could feel fingers no longer there twitching. 

“So it’s out of pity then.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t try to cheer someone up because I pity them. I try because I want to.”

“Oh.” 

“I’d like to think there’s a difference, s’cause then what’s the purpose?”

“Well thanks,” Bucky said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He had jumped to conclusions in Steve’s actions, labelling them automatically with a cynical reasoning. Foolishly he had failed to remember that sometimes people acted certain ways, not because of overthought out mindsets, but because of simple beliefs. Steve didn’t help because he pitied Bucky’s struggles, he helped because it was the innate thing to do.

It was just a simple, genuine act of kindness, nothing more nothing less. 

The next time he blinks, Steve is walking down his front path, headed back towards his truck. The conversation now ended, but despite Bucky’s desire for it to continue, he can’t find the courage to speak up.

Although, miracles do happen.

“And James,” Bucky’s heart fluttered. Steve was smiling softly, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with crow’s feet. How could someone so young have something that represented such a longevity of happiness? In the limited years he’s had so far, he must have really smiled. “I offered you the ride because I wanted to get to know you.”

Bucky inhaled, a wave of courage coursing through his body.

He could do it- _don’t think about the risk_ \- try.

“Bucky, you can call me Bucky.”

A smile, bigger and brighter than Bucky had ever seen on anyone found its way onto Steve’s lips, “Alright, Bucky. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It made sense now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things I wanted to expand upon cause I like this stuff:   
> 1\. "So it goes" is a famous quote from Vonnegut that probably 99% of the population has heard. While in Slaughter House Five it is the interpretation of death and time. That being, even when someone dies they are not truly dead, because the past, present and future all flow as one at the same time. However despite this, it is open to lots of different interpretations as well. A prominent one is that "so it goes" can refer to the moving on of a bad moment. Why? Well because similar to death and time, both good and bad moments are going on. So why ruminate on the bad, it happened, and you must move on. So when Steve says "so it goes" in the car while discussing how Life is to blame, he is trying to say 'don't worry, move on'   
> 2\. Steve's discussion of Life and fault. People who take the burden of fault on their shoulders when they (or anyone) are actually not to blame, do so and suffer unnecessarily. What Steve is trying to explain is that, when it is no one's fault, then it is Life's fault. Therefore, no one but Life has to worry about it. Life, a philosophical and social construct can bear it and deal with it because in some way that's what it was meant to do. (life's life)  
> 3\. I’ve always viewed fault as something determined by judging intention, and while I understand it is not always black and white, I do believe it can be a good way to ease someone’s distress.   
> In the case of Bucky, both in the fic and in the greater Marvel universe (Comics/MCU) he has always come across to me as the guy to blame himself and drown in his own self loath for actions that were not entirely in his control. Regardless of the circumstances, he believes he is always at fault.   
> I view Steve as quite the opposite. I think he can recognize (to an extent) when the actions of a person are their fault, or just a product of circumstances/environment. So in the fic, with the limited knowledge of Bucky’s life that he has, he can understand that what happened cannot be a purposeful action


	4. Eros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha instead of drowning in my many school readings, quizzes and assignments I have opted to ignore any responsibility. This chapter has actually been written for at least a month now, but I've only just gotten around to posting this. I've been working on other fics too because I have commitment issues. :) I got more of these chapters tho in mind and working on them rn

_“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”_ -Lao Tzu

* * *

Rain pounded against the window parallel to Bucky's bed and he could hear the gusts of wind whistle aggressively outside. 

“James?” His mom said as she pushed open his bedroom door, peering in. “School’s starting in an hour, are you getting up?”

The only response Bucky could muster was a groan of pain, shifting over in discomfort. He tried to sit himself up, but his stump ached in disapproval.

Rainy days were never pleasant days for Bucky. The pain that came from what was left of his arm always made him feel lightheaded and queasy. His feet felt like jelly and his head filled with vertigo that left him holding the wall for support. It was as if his body only ever realized it was missing a limb on a rainy day. Once the day had ended, it would stop and wait for another miserable day to ache, following a cycle of trigger, hurt, repeat every time.

Today was just one of those days it seemed.

Leaning over him, his mom pressed the backside of her hand against his sweaty forehead.

“Bad day?” She asked, voice filled with concern. Bucky nodded under the weight of her palm, his hand coming to clutch his stump.

“Yeah,” He croaked.

“I’ll call you in sick today at school. If you aren’t feeling better by tonight, I want you to call Phillip and say you can’t come into work tomorrow, okay?”

Bucky didn’t bother to nod. He just pressed his face into his pillow, inhaling deeply as another surge of raw ache travelled through his side.

His mom ran her fingers through his matted hair with a strained smile, finally pulling away. “I’ll call you later today to check in on you, alright sweetie?”

“What’s this I hear?” His sister poked her head through, brow raised. “Does Bucket-Head Bucky need some sisterly help?”

Bucky gritted his teeth through the pain, fighting off the tempting desire to snap at his sister. If Becca wasn’t being overtly coddling to the point of subtly mocking him, she was being patronising or passive-aggressive- especially during days like these when their parents were glued to his side. Her sisterly help in spells like these often just consisted of her lecturing Bucky on how to get over the pain as though the age difference between them placed her automatically on a pedestal of superiority. Bucky wanted to yell at her that age didn’t necessarily mean she was more knowledgeable then him at life, nor that she had actually ever experienced the pain of phantom limbs or car crashes, but he knew better then that. She always got defensive or angry whenever he tried to explain that like himself, she was still young and had much to learn and know.

Either way, he didn’t want to hear it from Becca. “No,” He groaned. “Leave me alone.”

To his surprise, Becca only turned and left, muttering under her breath in irritation. Bucky didn’t bother trying to make out what she had said, instead electing to curl inward, letting out a shaky exhale.

It took a little bit but by mid-afternoon, Bucky had crawled out of bed and staggered downstairs, his stomach both churning uneasily and growling in hunger. The very thought of food made him want to vomit, but he knew better then not to eat. If he at least had some soup his body wouldn’t feel so much like a disaster zone.

He padded to the kitchen, shaky hand dragging along the wall with a ghostly touch. The house was a calming quiet now that his family had all went to work. Gone was the constant noise of chattering from the television that his dad always kept running or the humming of an old tune from his mom. There was just the constant pattering of rain on the roof, not too strong, but light enough to feel safe within the confides of his home. Bucky thrived in places like these- the quiet, frozen landscapes where only he existed and tread. It was like he had inserted himself into an oil painting, careful as to not ruin the contents he walked through. And when those places grew louder and more crowded, Bucky would sink back into the background having left no trace he was there.

It’s why he enjoyed walking in the woods so much. The woods were always so tranquil, save for the occasional scamper of a little woodland creature that would set off echoes throughout the air. He felt comfortable there- at peace with the knowledge that he could disappear into the background of the forest wherever and whenever and nobody would notice. It would always be peaceful, and there would never be too much noise.

As he leaned against the kitchen counter, the soup on the stove slowly heating, he couldn’t help but think about the day before.

Would Steve notice?

As the thought soaked in the depths of Bucky’s psyche, the doorbell rung.

Mindlessly, he patted over to the entrance. 

Bucky opened the door, his lips parting in surprise as he found Steve on the other end of the door. Soaked to the bone and sporting a noticeable bloody nose, Steve’s pained expression instantly lit up in elation as Bucky opened the door. 

“Steve?” Bucky croaked; his voice riddled with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, I found your tire!” Beaming, Steve proudly presented a wheel to Bucky.

Sure enough, to Bucky’s surprise it was his lost tire.

“Wha- where did you get that?” Bucky gapped dumbfound. He had been absolutely certain that he’d never see his tire again. The chances of finding something like a bike tire in a small town surrounded by woods was absurd.

“In the river near my house.” There was a twang of breathlessness in Steve’s voice that caught Bucky’s ears, and he frowned apprehensively. Peering over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky could see the other boy's truck parked on the driveway. Steve was soaked, bloodied and out of breath yet he had taken his car to Bucky’s house. It was highly unlikely that in the distance between the house and the car, Steve had slipped and fell resulting in a fresh bloody nose. He had to have been doing something for him to be in the state he was.

Bucky tilted his head, brows scrunched together, “Are you alright?”

Without a beat of hesitation Steve nodded, “Oh yeah definitely.” He wiped away the droplets of rain that poured down his face before looking over Bucky’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I come in?” 

The guy was soaked, of course he wanted to come in and get out of the rain. Yet here Bucky was, keeping him from drying up. 

“Oh- uh sure.” Flustered, Bucky stepped out of the way, and allowed Steve to graciously entered.

The blond set the bike tire against the wall of the entrance, wiping his shoes on the mat before slipping them off.

“Nice place,” He admired, looking around.

Bucky didn’t know what to do but stand and stare dumbfoundedly. What did people do when they had company? He remembered that when relatives came to visit him after coming home from the hospital his mom offered them coffee and snacks. Most of them declined, but it always helped eased any tension or emotion in the room.

“Coffee.”

“Sorry?” Steve said in confusion, and Bucky winced internally.

Try again, he told himself. “Uh- do you want coffee?”

“Oh, no thanks- thank you though.” The blond rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly before pinching the fabric of his soaked shirt collar. As if remembering the state he was in, Steve smiled sheepishly. “Could I borrow a towel?” 

Bucky didn’t bother to rely, already opening up the linen closet by the time Steve had finished asking. He grabbed a towel and handed it to the other, taking a step back. He studied Steve carefully as the blond meticulously dried himself off, avoiding the bloody nose that had almost washed away entirely from the rain. Bucky wasn’t a cynic, maybe a pessimist, but he knew that something definitely was not right with how Steve had gotten the bloody nose. 

“So, you found my tire in a river?”

“Yeah.”

It was rather straightforward, but a burst of confidence broke through Bucky’s walls, taking control. “Is that how you got the bloody nose?” He blurted out; suspicion interwoven within the question.

The brief moment of hesitation in Steve would have been dismissible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention, but Bucky was. Steve rubbed his face with the towel, obscuring it from sight.

“Yeah, the river was strong.” Steve said muffled by the towel.

Bucky grabbed the empty sleeve of his shirt, giving it a tug mindlessly. He wanted to call Steve out of his lie and confront him, however, he feared that by doing it, Steve would leave and never talk to him again. Steve was here despite the bookstore incident and now the car incident, so what was his tipping point? Could he handle stressful situations but break during confrontation?

Bucky had to tread carefully and establish a foundation before he jumped in like a manic.

“Well thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing. I saw it so I figured I’d grab it.” Steve draped the towel over his shoulder, combing his fingers through his matted hair. A slow silence fell between them, and Bucky’s heart began to pound nervously. Why was he standing there doing nothing? He had to at least say something so Steve didn’t think he was a weirdo.

But he wouldn’t. Bucky had to remind himself that Steve would not think he was a loser. Steve wanted to get to know Bucky, and that meant he would be more patient and understanding with the lapses in Bucky’s sociability.

Still, even with all that patience and understanding, it wouldn’t go anywhere if Bucky didn’t put the effort in. Relationships were a two-way street, if Bucky didn’t reciprocate the effort Steve was putting in, then the ties would be cut. He had to think of something- something _what?_ -his shirt.

“Do you want a dry shirt?”

Relief spread over Steve and he nodded, “That’d be great.”

Bucky gestured for the blond to follow and together they climbed the stairs towards his bedroom.

He can feel Steve watching him as they moved, winding through the upstairs floor to his room. As Bucky opens his door, Steve speaks up. “So, why weren’t you at school today? I didn’t scare you off, did I?” The last part comes out small, a trace of nervousness lingering on his tone. It seemed that even the people Bucky assumed were fearless, did in fact fall victim to the trepidation.

They enter his room and Bucky spared a glance at the other boy before going to his closet.

“I uh wasn’t feeling good.” He said as he dug through sweaters. He grabbed the biggest sweater he had; an old and faded red hoodie from his dad’s college years that had lost its drawstrings long ago and handed it to the blond. It was oversized on Bucky, and probably could fit the other boy’s well-built physique pretty well.

“That sucks, are you sick?” Steve said, accepting the hoodie when Bucky offered it over to him.

Bucky shifted uneasily on his feet, the sudden direction of the topic going from clear to rough waters. “No,” He mumbled, “My arm.”

It took a moment, but realization spread across Steve’s face. However, the usual form of pity that Bucky would often see appear on others faces at the mention of his absent arm did not settle on the blond’s. If anything, it came and went as quickly as the words left Bucky’s mouth. 

“Dang, well I hope you feel better,” Steve said, and began to pull his wet shirt over his head. Instantly, Bucky turned heel, cheeks heating up at the brief sight of Steve’s exposed waist. He looked away, locking eyes with the wall.

“Hey, I was going to meet some of my friends at the coffee shop on main after this.” Steve said from behind nonchalantly, “Wanna come? – I mean, only if you’re feeling up for it.”

Bucky had to pause for a moment. Steve wanted him to come along?

“They wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not. They thrive off company.”

Bucky looked out his window, fiddling with the helm of his sweater reluctantly. Once his medication worn off, he’d be in a load of discomfort, especially if he was out in the rain. “I don’t know.”

“Come on Bucky, fresh air never hurt none.” Steve nudged and Bucky’s fingers froze on his fabric. “I’ll drive you home whenever you want to leave- promise.”

He called him his name- his nickname. Nobody but his family and a few select others called him that. Butterflies fluttered within Bucky’s insides and he found himself succumbing to the numbing sensation. Dazedly, he nodded.

“Okay.”

It’s at that moment Bucky finds himself back in Steve’s truck, sitting quietly as the other drove.

“So,” Steve drew an airy breath, fiddling with the arch of the steering wheel. “I like you model planes. They’re really good.” 

Heat bloomed from Bucky’s cheeks and he looked down at his feet instinctively. Stupidly he had forgotten to hide all the embarrassing things he had littered around his room. He had been just so engrossed in the concept of Steve being there with him, that he forgot where he was.

“Uh, thanks.”

“I used to do them but since I started to play lacrosse on the school team last summer, I haven’t had the time.” Steve rattled off, oblivious to the red that spread across the brunette’s face. He spared a quick glance away from the road, a light grin shining brightly at Bucky. “Maybe one day when I’m free we can do some together.”

“It’s more of a one-person hobby.” Bucky mumbled awkwardly.

“Well we don’t have to just do that. We can paint other things too.”

“You really like art,” Bucky said slowly in increasing wonder. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah, but you can’t get scholarships with a couple sticks of charcoal, now can you?”

Bucky thought quietly to himself. “No,” He agreed, “But you could draw one.”

Another smile appeared on the blond’s lips and Bucky found himself feeling oddly proud for being the reason for it.

“And I’ll put it on my fridge so all my family can see,” Steve chuckled, the corners of his bright blue eyes crinkling in amusement. “My ma will be so proud.”

A chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips, and he found himself laughing alongside Steve. It felt so foreign. A moment of carelessness wrapped within embrace of joy, shared like a present. As the laugher died down, Bucky found himself desiring to continue a conversation with Steve. Maybe he was just riding off the sensation of confidence or he just wanted to avoid a silent car-ride. Regardless, a rush of extroversion prompted him to speak up.

“Your parents are going to need a lot of fridge magnets then.”

Another deep laugh escaped from the blond, his shoulders rising and falling with each snicker.

“Well thank God my mom already has them stockpiled.” Steve said in a dramatized display of relief. “She’s always on top of things. I think if she really wanted to, she could run the country.”

Bucky smiled, “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve said. “She’s been doing things on her own for awhile so she’s practically an independence guru.”

His tone was lighthearted, but there was a genuineness intertwined between the words. An admiration that exceeded any familial bounds. It didn’t seem like Steve respected his mom solely for being his parent, but instead as another human in the game of life. As if, even in an alternate universe where they were not mother and son, he would still hold her in the highest regard.

Steve quickly took his eyes off the road to glance at Bucky. “What about you? Are your parents’ gurus at something?”

Well they were pretty good at hiding their divorce from their kids for the longest time. They were also experts in being friendly with each other despite going through a freaking divorce after 25 years of marriage. 25 years of memories, milestones and kids all down the drain with a person they apparently didn’t love. If he was in a situation like that, he’d be bitter, regretful, and angry at the colossal waste of life. Yet here his parents were, acting all buddy-buddy with each other, as though being bitter for 25 years lost was not even an option in the matter. It didn’t make a lick of sense, and to say Bucky was confused would be an understatement. He couldn’t seem to comprehend it and that just made him angry.

“My mom’s good at sudoku.” Bucky said. “And my dad’s funny.” 

“Both very useful skills in life.” Steve hummed.

There was a fresh pause of silence. Suddenly Bucky wasn’t a fan of the conversation- or the silence he often found himself comforted by.

“Who are we meeting again?” He asked, hoping to change the topic.

“You met them at practice, but I’ll give you a refresher before we go in.” 

“Thanks.”

* * *

As they pulled into the café parking lot, the reality of what he was doing hit him like a truck.

He was going to hang out with people- with Steve’s friends. What did he have to contribute to the conversation? What did he even have in common with them? What happens if they judged him for all his flaws and weirdness. Some of them were there in the bookstore the day he had the freak out and what if Steve had told them about the truck or bike incident. Then they’d surely know that Bucky was odd.

He could sense the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach suffocating the confidence he had gathered progressively in the car as he stepped out into the rain. His eyes wandered the exterior of the café, locking onto a sight that murdered his confidence completely. Inside the café, pressed into a booth, Bucky could seem the semi-familiar faces of the people he had met at practice. All of Steve’s friends just sitting there enjoying a Bucky-free life. Who was he to barge in on that?

“I… uh-“ Before Bucky could backpedal and run, Steve’s nudged his side with the crook of his elbow, gesturing to follow.

“Come on, I got them to save us a seat.”

Wordlessly, and rather unwillingly Bucky followed, the thickness in his throat increasing with each step. They entered, and almost immediately a guy- similar to Steve in appearance began to wave them over to the booth enthusiastically.

A relaxed expression settled over Steve’s face, and he patted the table as they got to the group.

“Hey, sorry we’re late.”

The other blond- who Steve had reminded him was Clint waved them off dismissively. “No sweat dude, you haven’t missed much but Nat playing mind games on Tony. She’s almost got him believing that our school was secretly a bunker for the Cold War.”

“Impressive,” Steve bobbed in approval, and the first redhead- Natasha, humbly shrugged off the compliment. Bucky, who was admittedly hiding behind Steve’s larger presence as the conversation went down was abruptly pulled out to center focus by Steve. “You guys remember James, right?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Clint began, a mischievous glint in his eyes that made Bucky shutter anxiously. “We _remember_ him alright.”

So, Steve did really tell them about all the incidents Bucky has had.

“It’s tight, but we should all fit.” Steve said, pulling him from his train of thought, and taking a seat beside Natasha, Clint, and Pepper.

Reluctantly, Bucky took a seat on the other side of the booth, sliding in beside the other guy- Sam. He offered a wavering smile to the teen.

“Hi.” He mumbled shyly to Sam. 

“Hey,” The greeting was returned with ease, providing a little nod of encouragement his way as well. Bucky’s eyes flickered swiftly back to the table, finding sudden interest in the utensils splayed out across it. 

Without warning, a solid force abruptly slid into him, sandwiching him between Sam. Bucky barely stifled out a yelp of surprise, his eyes widening as the body- a shorter boy with black hair slung his arm over and above Bucky, resting it on the backing of the booth.

“Tony.” Pepper said with a resigned sigh.

“What?” Tony said nonchalantly. His gaze shifted over towards Bucky, as if only noticing the presence of the brunette. “Oh hey, you’re Steve’s buddy.”

Flustered, Bucky nodded, “Y-yeah,”

“Nice to re-meet you.” Turning away, Tony focused his attention on Natasha with narrow eyes. “I’m going to need some solid evidence if you really think I’m going to believe that the school is a bunker. Especially coming from you- you’re like one step a way from being a mini manipulator from the Red Room.”

Natasha pulled a face of subtle pride, before snapping back a sassy and almost threatening comment. Regardless, Bucky found himself not paying attention to the rest of the conversation, he was too engrossed in what had just happened. A gesture so small that Bucky was absolutely baffled. 

Bucky Barnes had completely slipped from Tony’s mind, as almost an insignificant change in scenery to him- he didn’t even bat an eyelash at the idea that Bucky was sitting beside him.

The brunette blinked in surprise, the queasiness in his stomach dissolving as the conversation went on. Maybe they didn’t know about his freak-outs and he could live another day free from embarrassment. If that was the case, he was going to have to walk on thin ice to keep it that way-

-or maybe they did know but just didn’t care?

Bucky’s ruminations often left him overthinking in the most pessimistic ways possible. He recognized the destructiveness of the tendency, but it was always a difficult habit for him to break. Sometimes it was just better to expect the worst than to be surprised with it.

Engrossed in thought, Bucky didn’t realize the group had gone quiet and now was looking at him expectedly, waiting for some sort of response. It was only until Tony snapped his fingers, did Bucky crash back to earth.

“So Chief Bromden,” Tony said, grabbing a spoon and twirling it. Bucky got the feeling that the other boy couldn’t not do something constantly. “What’s your hot take on secret government funded Cold War programs and our town?”

If this is what people regularly talked about with their friends, he had not come prepared whatsoever.

“Well uh Tunguska is a Russian word.” He fumbled, eyes skittering from one person to another. They paused for a moment on Steve’s calming blue eyes, instantly washing away any fear that was building from the pressure of prying eyes. “So maybe America tried to trick the Soviets into believing it had Russian origin, that way maybe the Soviets would spare the town from the bombs? All you really need to restart a society is a couple people and the skeleton of a previous community- like a school.”

Tony’s hand slammed against the table abruptly, throwing up the cutlery. The utensils clattered against the table, and everyone’s wide eyes landed on the owner of the hand. 

“Finally, a man of intellect.” Tony said, leaning towards Bucky so that their faces were only a couple inches apart. Unconsciously, Bucky pulled away from the intense contact, shrinking every so slightly in the booth. Tony either oblivious or just flat out careless, didn’t seem to acknowledge Bucky’s discomfort. Instead, he extended out his hand, “Welcome to the crew.”

Bucky eyed the hand cautiously, and didn’t shake it, “Thanks…?”

Sam shook his head tiredly, “Man, you all are so damn weird.”

“If we’re so weird, why are you here then?” Clint asked and Sam shrugged. “Oh, and what’s with the bloody nose, Steve? Who did you fight this time?”

Almost shying away, Steve shifted in his seat, his fingers unconsciously hovering under his nose as if to check for any new blood. “No one, I hit it on the car door.” 

“Sure, and Pepper isn’t two seconds away from strangling Tony constantly.”

Pepper made a noise of agreement and Tony began

Bucky’s eyes briefly met Steve’s, but it felt as though they had stayed locked on each other for hours. A quiet exchange of small smiles between the two played out under the boisterous, quips and shouts of protest from the rest of the group. It was short, but it felt like a silent conversation, as if to say, _‘welcome to the team, its all confetti’_.

Bucky’s shoulder didn’t hurt much more after that.

* * *

Bucky watched as Steve’s truck grew smaller and smaller before disappearing entirely by the shroud of forest that surrounded the town like a maze. His heart was light in his throat, the thrumming of adrenaline and weightlessness in his veins. He felt as if he could fly. A feeling so foreign, so strange he couldn’t quite grasp how flying would make him feel better than he was at that moment.

Bucky turned on his heel, a smile plastered to his face as the front door shut behind him. As he finished turning, he stopped dead in his tracks, the hard eyes of his sister staring right through him. Her arms were crossed, brows knotted together and jaw clenching as they met each others’ gaze.

“Becca.” Bucky said, the smile slipping from his lips. “I didn’t see your car.”

“I thought you were sick.” She said lowly.

He shifted, “I took some medication.” He explained lamely.

With a scoff, his sister unfolded her arms, hand resting on her hip. “Well isn’t that convenient.” She said sarcastically.

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“When I was in high school, mom never let me stay home even when I was sick.”

Bucky didn’t understand where she was going with her reminiscing. His sister did it so often as some sort of form of superiority over him. As if the experiences she’d had in the past were so easily relatable to his- as if she knew everything because she had experienced everything. But that wasn’t the case, and Bucky knew that. She was only a couple years older than he was- barely a quarter into both their lifetimes. “So?”

“So, don’t go using and abusing mom’s charity. It’s exhausting for us to put all our time and energy into pampering you.” Becca shot.

Something boiled in Bucky. Something he hadn’t felt truly for a while, and that feeling of weightlessness in him from minutes before disappeared like a gust of wind. That low resonating feeling of a heavy heart and clenching- it had been brewing in the background of his mind for awhile now, stirring at his shame and anguish.

Because where shame lingered, bitterness and rage made its home.

“Go to hell.” Bucky said, marching up the stairs. His breathing was heavy, nostrils flared, and he wanted to hit something. God, why did he wanna hit something? Why couldn’t it have ended good? Started horrible and ended the day with him lying in bed, a hopeless smile on his face like in the books.

“You’re so fucking immature.” Becca grumbled, getting the last word. She always needed to get the last word in.

Slamming the door shut, Bucky kicked a sweater laying on the floor with frustration. He flopped onto the bed, curling inward, the pit in his stomach swallowing him like quicksand.

He hated Becca sometimes- truly and utterly despised her. But other days he didn’t, and he didn’t understand why. Why he hated someone but loved them the next day? Wasn’t loving someone suppose to be consistent? Suppose to never change? He hated Becca and then he loved Steve-

What? No. Why had he thought about Steve? It was Becca he was thinking about, not Steve-

Not Steve Rogers.

Blue eyes, soft smile- honest, kind, funny- Steve Rogers.

Oh god, he liked Steve. He liked someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An intro to the rest of the gang I think? Well not really but more so for Bucky.


	5. Storge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter going into family troubles
> 
> Contains things that may trigger people, so please if you don't feel comfortable, just skip it after Bucky returns home and go to the endnote. I'll explain what happened there

_“Home is, I suppose just a child's idea. A house at night, and a lamp in the house. A place to feel safe.”_ \- V.S Naipaul 

* * *

Sitting on the bleachers, a new book – _Eyeless in Gaza_ – in hand, Bucky soaked in the euphoric serenity that floated around him. A couple weeks had past, and the leaves had begun to turn fiery hues of orange, red, and yellow, crisping and falling from their branches around him with the help of pleasant gusts that propelled them forward.

The area was quiet, all the students having gone home for the day.

Usually, Bucky would have left by now, leaving just shortly after the last bus departed. He had never had a reason to stay any later unless pulled aside by Mr. Bates and Ms. Aster that one time.

However now was different, a good different, and Bucky had a reason to stay and mill around on the bleachers.

The sound of a ball ringing off one of the soccer nets made Bucky look up, tagging his page and setting it to the side. A sweat-covered, hair plastered, exerted blond walked towards Bucky, the lacrosse stick dangling loosely in his grip.

“Alright,” Steve breathed, chest rising and falling heavily. He had been doing practices the passed hour alone, running track and taking pot shots at the net nonstop like a madman. “I’m done for today.”

Bucky handed Steve his water, watching as the blond downed it hastily. “Only for today?” He questioned lightly. “That’s enough exercise to last me the entire semester.”

“Hey, you should play.” Steve prompted with a smile, handing the bottle back. “I’m sure we could figure something out with the stick.”

Bucky shifted his gaze away, skipping from Steve to the ground.

“Ah no...” He mumbled. “I don’t- I don’t think it would work.”

“Why not?”

Bucky didn’t want to tell Steve that not only could he barely run up the stairs without breathing like an asthmatic cat, but that sometimes his hands shook, and by sometimes he really meant as a daily occurrence without warning. It was his medication – a side effect from who knows what handful of pills he was taking. It made it difficult at times to do things because the spasms only got worse as time went by. Sort a like boiling water if he could compare it. At first the shaking is barely noticeable to the untrained eye, just the water knows, but as the pot heats and pressure grows, his hands become uncoordinated, shaky messes of bone, nerve, and muscle. His drawings became less precise and jerkier, books harder to read when he could barely follow the shakes, and there wasn’t even a point in mentioning painting his model planes. That was pretty much understood.

“Hand-eye-coordination. It’s bad.” He explained lamely. “Plus I don’t know how to play.”

Steve studied him, and for a spilt second Bucky was terrified that Steve could see him lying through his teeth. Instead, his face lightened, and he shrugged dismissively. “Well, maybe one day.”

Bucky smiled, pushing a long strand of his hair away from his face nervously.

“Thanks for staying by the way.” Steve said as they began to pack up. “I like the company.”

He pushed back the blush as best as he could, opting to shrug and grab his bag nonchalantly. “No worries, I like it too.”

Which for the most part was true. However, there was a part of him staying after school for much later hours because he was trying to avoid home. Ever since the quick spat with his sister, the two were walking on eggshells with each other constantly. The tiniest things could set them off, and admittedly Bucky wasn’t always the victim in the situation. Sometimes he yelled at his sister and she yelled back, and he felt stupid about it afterwards, but there was no point in apologizing because Becca would only dose those flames with more fuel the next day.

Usually he was alright at home, but nowadays he hated the thought of being there.

His sister was always arguing with him about stupid little things, his parents were in this weird limbo of loving each other but going through a divorce, and they all treated him like this crazy lunatic one thread away from snapping. He hated how his family was treating him, and he hated how none of them were providing him with reasons as to why. That’s all he wanted- a reason and maybe a solution.

And yet here he was, still confused, annoyed, and with Steve- who took all those feelings away and replaced them with something good.

Helping Steve with his equipment, they loaded everything into Steve’s truck, chatting about the nonsensical. Bucky really did enjoy Steve’s company, both as a friend and more. He felt weightless, free and confident, like whatever he said would never be unfairly criticized or ridiculed by Steve. That there was a layer of unspoken respect and dignity between the two, but also a childlike freedom of thought. One moment they could discuss world issues, and the next they’d be debating the validity of dragons and aliens in modern day society.

Before the accident, Bucky’s old friends were like that to an extent. There was that creative, light banter of silly things, but that was about the extent of it. Sometimes, Bucky wanted to have genuine discussions about things that were important in the world. Discussions where his opinion was recognized as well-thought out and heard whether the person agreed with him or not. He wanted people to know that he could contribute something to a conversation that had real world weight to it.

Steve was able to do both, and the friends he hung out with that were slowly becoming Bucky’s could also do that. They could have their silly chats as they should as kids, but when needed they would in a way sober up and have a conversation where everyone’s opinion was recognized and heard.

As the truck pulled up in front of Bucky’s house, Steve turned to him, resting his palm on the steering wheel.

“Tony’s going to have a Halloween party – and I know that it’s still two weeks away, but I was uh,” He scratched the back of his neck anxiously. “I was wondering if you wanted to come?”

Bucky blinked owlishly. He had never been to a proper high school party before, let alone one on Halloween. “Is Tony okay with that?”

“Yeah, I mean he pretty much told me that if I wasn’t going to invite you, he would.”

“Oh,” Bucky said slowly, before nodding. “Okay, uh yeah, I’ll come. Uh- though the bookstore closes at 5.”

Steve’s face lit up, brimming with joy and he smiled brightly. “Great! Party will probably start at 9 but I’ll let you know if things change.”

Bucky got out of the car; his bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t think parties started so late, though it made sense. Besides, Steve had asked him to a party, Steve Rogers. He was going to a party with Steve. Maybe it was a date? No that didn’t make sense. People didn’t go on dates to parties, that was objectively speaking the worst place to go for a date. Was it? He didn’t know. Regardless, it was with Steve.

“Awesome!” Bucky breathed nervously, rehearsing the words in his head. He brought his hand up in an awkward, if not a little stiff wave. “I’ll see you later sch-Steve at- at school!”

His voice broke for a moment from nervousness, but the blond didn’t acknowledge it, instead a teasing smile grew across Steve’s lips, humored by the endearing awkwardness. “Bye Buck.” He hummed, and the truck began to move.

As Steve drove off, a rosy blush spread across Bucky’s cheeks and he quickly coughed, twisting away. He had a nickname and Steve had given it to him.

Upon entering the house, he was immediately greeted by his mother who was cleaning his dad’s sheets on the couch, kind hands carefully adjusting the duvet with care.

A frown threatened Bucky, but he pushed it down, opting to walk past and put his leftover lunch into the fridge.

“You’re home late.” His mom said in surprise as he walked by. “Dinner’s just in the oven.”

Bucky quickly pushed his leftovers to the back of the fridge, shutting it before his mom could see. “I was out with a friend.” To his left he could see a clutter of cooking utensils and the ends of vegetables and some sort of fish. “Salmon?”

“An attempt.” She went around the counter, a silly expression on her face. “A friend you say?”

“Ma.” He groaned and she threw her hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry, I just gotta know.” His mom said, “It’s a mom thing- we are naturally nosy creatures.”

“Creatures can evolve.” He pointed out. His mom leaned over the counter, fusing with a long lock of his hair.

“If I can evolve, so can you, my sweet baby barbarian.” Bucky moved his head away, an expression of humored displeasure on his face at his mom’s sarcasm. “Speaking of which, one of your teachers phoned about a-”

The second didn’t last, as at that moment, his sister walked in, taking one quick look at the pair. “It’s more of a haircut for crazy homeless people.”

“Rebecca.” His mom scolded, and she shrugged innocently.

“Just saying what we all think, isn’t that right Bucket?”

Bucky huffed, frowning. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t give me a reason to then.” She nipped back. Like watching a broken clock that never moved but kept ticking, an irritation burned into angry resentment. Something ticked in Bucky, like a countdown that had finally reached the end of its line. The anticipation of an explosion stirring up chaos within. He wished his sister minded her own business for once and didn’t try to fuck with him. 

“Why’re you like this?” Bucky questioned bluntly, his resentment and anger was blatant in his tone. “Why are you treating me like shit one moment and coddling me the next?”

Becca bore holes into him with her harsh gaze. “You wanna know?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Because you’re a fucking crippled raccoon. People see you and suddenly their obligated to drop goddamn everything and spoil you despite you being a major asshole half the time.”

“Rebecca!” Their mom said loudly in disapproval. “James, don’t egg her on!”

Uncaring of his mom’s disapproval, Bucky ignored it, his attention too focused on his sister.

“That’s not true. I don’t ask people to pity me.” He denied feverishly, grabbing the closest thing to him and clenching his fist tightly around it. A sharp pain shot up his hand, but he ignored it. It was just another spasm from the pills fucking with his nerves like every other goddamn day.

His sister had the audacity to laugh, “Oh really?” She tested incredulously. “I have to be a perfect sister now because of what happened. How is that fair for me? Mom and Dad and my friends, and the whole _fucking_ town, they want me to be that sister- to throw my entire life away for you and not bat an eye or ask for a thanks. If you don’t want to be pitied, then do something about it!” Becca yelled, cynicism laced between her words as she muttered, “God, you just don’t understand.”

It was as she had unleashed a tidal wave of red-hot emotions in Bucky. His vison grew shallow, breath short from the tightness in his chest; wraith had enveloped him.

“ _I don’t understand_?” Bucky sputtered loudly taken aback and he slammed his clenched hand against the counter, another sharp stab of pain running up his forearm. A sea of rage swelled inside him. “So, you understand what it’s like to have one _fucking_ arm? Is that what you’re telling me, huh? What’s it like Becca, having your arm hang from a single nerve? Come on, tell me!”

His sister didn’t say anything, and for once Bucky felt like he had finally gotten the last say. It wasn’t as satisfying as he thought it would be. It just felt empty.

“What’s it like?!” Bucky screamed and Becca flinched, still not answering, but neither did his mom for that matter. They had both gone an eerie quiet, pale expressions on their face, eyes cast in fear at the countertop. With a heavy exhale, Bucky looked down at where they were looking. Another blossom of pain shot up his hand as the boiling blood in his body chilled. Red seeped down his shaking fingers, dropping to the counter like little rose petals from a dying flower. The red puddled, staring up at him with an emptiness to its dark hue.

His heart caught in his throat as Bucky shakingly dropped the knife held clenched in his hand. It clattered against the stone surface, red smeared along the sharp grooves.

His hand hurt _a lot_.

Everything falls silent after that.

“I’m…” He mumbled but trailed off as the anger dissipated like mist. There was a buzzing in his ears, and he felt weightless, but not in the way Steve made him feel. In a bad, nothingness- _I don’t exist_ sort a way. “I’m… going to go upstairs.”

He remembered taking a step away, eyes glued to a hand that leaked blood like a rain gutter after a heavy storm. He could make out his mother’s frantic voice echoing his name faintly in his peripheral. Did ears have peripherals? He guessed that they had distance, but he hadn’t learned much about the ear yet in science.

The next time he blinks, he’s in the bathroom, sitting in an empty tub, clothed and hunched over.

That wasn’t right? He thought groggily. He was in the kitchen with his mom. His mom had made salmon and his sister had yelled at him… and he had yelled back.

A dull ache throbbed in his hand, and he looked down at it in partial confusion.

It was wrapped in thick layers of clean gauze.

When he looks up, his mom is by the sink washing her hands. Her back is to him, and he can see their first aid kit on the floor by her feet. It’s open and there is an empty package labeled _suture kit_ sitting by it.

“Mom?” Bucky croaked disoriented. His mom turned around, wiping pink from her hands onto their nice decorative towels. His mom had always told them not to use those towels. That they were there solely for aesthetic and for guests to admire. Obviously, the rest of the family had thought they were pointless and tacky, but they didn’t bother to put up a fight about it. There were worst things to fret about then a towel with an ugly bird and rabbit on it.

“How are you feeling, baby?” She sat down on the side of the tub, pressing the back of her hand to his cheek lightly.

Truth be told, he was feeling a load of things. His brain felt as though it had been tossed into a bender, scrambled, beaten and fried. His memory was fuzzy and distant, flashes of bleachers, his family, and a knife rocketing through his mind like a roller-coaster that kept coming in and out of tunnels, light and dark flickering in and out at incomprehensible speeds.

“What happened?”

“You had an accident.” She explained.

He felt like he was four by the way his mom was talking to him. He had enough awareness left in him to recognize that. He wanted to know _what_ happened.

“Truth?” His mom said tenderly, and he nodded, lips pursed, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes at the disarray of emotions and thoughts swirling through his head. “You were mad, and you grabbed a knife.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Bucky whispered; his voice small. His mom’s soft fingers ran through his hair slowly, parting locks with careful consideration. She was so gentle. How was it possible that someone like him, came from someone downright seamless like her? It didn’t make sense, genetics be damned.

“I know, baby.” She hushed, “It was an accident, it happens.”

No, it really didn’t he thought. People don’t just grab knives by the blade and slice their palm open in a fit of rage. He couldn’t let these things keep going on. It would tear him in two by the end of the year.

Before he can say anything, his mom slides into the tub with him. Sitting on the other end, stretching her short legs out. She’s so small and at some point in his life he had gotten too big for her to carry him around. Yet it seemed like even after putting him down for the last time, she had still been carrying him throughout life. Making sure he was eating, waking him up in the morning, keeping him on schedule. By that time, she didn’t need to do any of that. He could do it on his own, still she did, regardless of if she was tired or not. Was that love?

Carrying someone even when they’re too big to be carried?

“Talk to me.” She said softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

If he wanted to get better. To stop feeling like shit all the time, he had to do something about it. He couldn’t keep letting people deal with his troubles.

“Why are you and dad getting a divorce? You still care about him.” Bucky said delicately, no longer masking the confusion that enveloped him whenever he thought about his parents. “Isn’t that love? Caring for the person you love? I don’t get it?”

Leaning forward, his mom wipes a stray tear running down his face. “James,” Her hand falls into a stroking gesture. “You can love people in so many different ways.”

It still didn’t make sense. How was one form of love any different to the other? It was love all the same. She loved his dad, and he loved her.

“I still love your dad, just not in that sort of way.”

“As a friend.” He said, filling in the words she did not speak.

His mom bobbed her head in agreement, “Not all best friends are meant to get married.”

Bucky looked down at his hand, it shook ever so slightly. He pursed his lips, brows knotting from the sudden disquieting thought that washed over him. “Do you regret marrying him?”

She shakes her head quickly- insistently. “No, not at all. If it had to be someone, I’m glad that it was him.”

But what about him? What about his sister? If their marriage was a failure, then didn’t that mean Becca and himself were just products of it as well? Creations of a misinterpreted love? Did it mean that every moment of living was a mistake created by two people’s misunderstood affections for each other? He didn’t want to think about that.

Bucky nodded and a gentle hand was placed on his. Whether he tried to or not, his mother saw right through him. 

“Not all mistakes are bad.” She explained. “Sometimes, they are the best things to have happened to a person.”

“Then how do you know?” Bucky asked, his mind wandering to a certain blond haired, blue eyed boy in a field. “That you love someone as more than just a friend?”

A silly smile appeared on his mother’s face, and she shrugged, wiggling her socked feet against his ankles. “Not sure, it seems I’m only an expert at loving a friend and a family.”

Bucky bobbed his head in understanding. Not everyone knew everything, that’s why perspective was such a wonderful thing. Truth could be found in the many opinions and views of people, for abstract concepts like love were solely ever subjective to the person.

Bucky loosened his legs, stretching them out from the hunched, knee to chest position he had them in before.

“Can I ask you a question?” His mom asked and Bucky obliged. “Why didn’t you tell me about the IEP offered?”

If the shock hit Bucky like a ton of bricks, he didn’t feel it. To numbed by everything that had happened, it didn’t come as a surprise that somehow his mother had found out about the IEP. It was more so a resigned acceptance that, of course she knew. Mothers’ were nosy creatures, but nosy for a reason.

“Truth?” She nodded, Bucky feeling the shake in his hand worsen. “I couldn’t swallow my pride. I didn’t want another reason to be… not me anymore.”

Which was rich considering the circumstances of where he was right now. Sitting in a bathtub, dazed out of his mind with a cut up hand and a worried mother across from him.

She tilted her head, concerned eyes boring into his. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, not like me before the accident. If I didn’t need it before… then I shouldn’t have to need it now.”

“Bucky, people are always changing.”

He shook his head feverishly, “I know, but not this quickly and this much.”

“Will you at least consider it?”

“Sure,” Bucky whispered half-heartedly.

His mom leaned in, wrapping her arms around him in a suffocating embrace. A desire for warmth bubbled in Bucky, and he found himself returning the hug, wrapping his arm around her as well.

The embrace was long and quiet, but much needed by a kid whose world seemed to flip flop uncontrollably. His mom’s presence was calming and reliable, it never changed and Bucky desired that right now in his life.

His mom’s hand came to fiddle with the ends of his hair. “You need a haircut.” She whispered, and a grin broke out over Bucky’s face, his mom’s timing ever the perfect.

“Never.”

Together the embrace broke and Bucky got up, extending his wrist out for his mom. She accepted it, slipping a little on the tub’s squeaky-clean surface as he tugged her up.

“The bathtub is really clean.” Bucky noted, pulling his mother up.

“Becca did a deep clean yesterday.”

“She did a good job.” He admitted reluctantly.

His mom grinned; a smile that screamed a mother’s all-knowingness. “You should tell her that.”

“She hates me.”

His mom rolled her eyes. “She really doesn’t. Start small, try to understand her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make the argument between Becca and Bucky as understandable/realistic as possible. From my own experiences, full blown arguments that were much too uncontrolled and much too bitter between my siblings and I have always started from something small like a comment. And I think in part it's because people tend to build up their grievances with others till it explodes in one big disaster. In Bucky and Becca's case, they both have issues with each other that stem from issues with their own selves that they are projecting onto the other. Bucky is angry at how his sister treats him because it is so double-sided, but he is also angry at himself. How his image has changed so much from who he was before the accident, and how people like his sister now treat him. On Becca's side, she feels like she has an obligation to take care of Bucky as a 'big sister' would. That she has to drop everything willingly with a smile and do whatever he asks because its her job as a sister, and if she does not abide by that, everyone around her will look down on her like a villain. It's a common thing experienced with family caretakers. A bitterness grows because they feel obligated to take care of their elderly parent or hurt family member and if they don't, they feel guilty for not giving up everything for their loved one, no matter how valid their reason is for it. It's the best and worst of human emotions.
> 
> This all leads up to the suggestion of Bucky's mom. That in order for Bucky to realize that Becca doesn't hate him as he thinks she does, that he needs to first understand her. Understand where she and her anger is coming from. perspective is key in life, and while some people are horrible people just because (no perspective required), many others are just complex and need a little understanding. To understand and accept someone: to have compassion and empathy, despite their differences? That's one of the hardest things a person can do. But it betters you as an individual. It really does.

**Author's Note:**

> As the closest knowledge/experience I have with things like PTSD comes from my education as a psychology major, there probably will be inaccuracies or mistakes on my part. My intention will never be to belittle or vilify those with PTSD, IEP or any disability etc. The thoughts of Bucky come from his own opinion and experience so they will be flawed to an extent. Therefore, if I do in any way make a mistake or fail at conveying hardships/lifestyles, please let me know. I'd love to learn more and rectify those mistakes.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading my rabbles :) More will be sure to come


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